I pour tomatoes and chop sweet onion. Then snip parsley frills and crush the basil, sprinkle salt, add spoonful of sugar. Stir.
I race against the clock. Hurry. A tasty sauce takes time to simmer.
But hungry stomachs will arrive at six.
I rattle glasses, bang stainless, wash and wipe.
Outside a silver needle threads its way across the sky, straight and slow.
Autumn swirls its colors in the breeze. Time crunches underfoot.
A hawk soars in circles high over khaki corn. It’s in no hurry.
A cardinal perches on the clothesline T.
A one-eyed black cat glances my way, then saunters toward the edge.
I lay down my sponge and pick up my camera.
I must squeeze the juice of this one moment while I still can see.
There is no hurry.